


Thankless

by Nonia



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3+1 Things, Angst, Durin Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonia/pseuds/Nonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Thorin did not receive gratitude, and one time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thankless

**Author's Note:**

> In reponse to the Hobbit Kink-meme prompt:
> 
> Five thankless jobs the king without a mountain had to work while in exile, and one where his effort/skill got proper recognition. 
> 
> (Or, you know, 3+1 or whatever works. Just give me unhappy broody homesick Thorin)

**_Of Battles_ **

Kingship had ever been a faraway reality in Thorin’s world. His grandfather had yet lived, his father too, and Thorin, was but third in line. For they were Dwarves, and made by Mahal in his image, and were made to endure and be hardy and live long. Thorin was glad to fulfil his duties as expected, learn the lore; and be a prince. A prince under the mountain. 

His reality was now no more. 

His brother was in pieces, fed to the wargs.

His grandfather’s head lies lost in a sea of dead. 

His father had disappeared, Thorin knew not where. He could only wish to Mahal he was dead and his death had been a quick one. 

His home under the mountain, sacked. 

Even his princeship had been taken from him. For now they whisper his name, King-in-Exile. King Under the Mountain. Thorin II Oakenshield. 

And with Kingship, came responsibility. 

It was in a daze that Thorin picked his steps through the battle field. Forced, it grieved him, to tread on his fellow Dwarves every few steps, lest he be trapped amidst the sea of the dead. 

This was no victory, Thorin had thought to himself at one point, feeling overwhelmed as all their people. Where do they begin to pick up the dead? Their people? Their lives? Their spirits? 

Some had nodded in greeting; a few greeted him as new King-in-Exile. Most ignored him, as they too, stepped dazedly amongst the ruin of their people. 

He is king of a mountain that is not theirs anymore, and a people in ruin. 

Where is the blame?

As if in answer to the tunnels and mazes he had been digging in his head, there was a wail of grief. Turning as if in a dream, Thorin found himself staring at a Dwarf, whom he knew came from a large family. From the litany of names falling from the Dwarf’s stricken wails, they were all lost. 

Thorin made to approach the Dwarf only to have the Dwarf catch sight of him and curse him and his line. Blame laid upon his family for leading their people into this. For nearly decimating their race. 

Thorin knew tragedy oft brought madness and grief with it. Grief the size of the tragedy of Azanulbizar needed reasoning lest one succumb to the loss and madness and join their beloved, may they rest in Mahal’s hall in peace until the Final Battle.

His thoughts were again interrupted as a strong arm grabbed his shoulder. Dwalin. 

Thorin brought himself back to the surface in time to hear Dwalin yell at the Dwarf, “This is your King and Lord. His family built a good life for our people before the dragon and he will build a good life for us after this.”

The Dwarf spat at their feet and answered in his grief, “He will be the ruin of us all! This King of yours! Like his fathers before!” 

Thorin gripped Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder and roused himself finally, “Come, Dwalin. Leave him to his grief.” 

His people needed him. His sister needed him.

He would endure. He was of Durin’s race. Of Mahal’s race. He would endure. 

*****  
 ** _Of Marches_**

Their march towards Ered Luin was fraught with hardship. The harsh winter had been one of the harshest seen, and even the hardy race of Mahal had been forced to stop their march near a collection of Man villages.

A sickness had spread in their camps, and they were in dire need of supplies. It had been decided that the men-folk would venture into the villages and offer service and wares to sell, until the winter had passed and they would march again. 

Thorin would not ask anything of his people too great for himself to bear, and thus, he had been one of the first to venture into one of the villages where a blacksmith had been lacking. Their weapons laughable and horses barely shod in the proper way. 

It was a noble craft, one taught to the Seven Fathers by Mahal himself, and so Thorin steeled himself and set up a tiny forge, and tried to steel his heart against the grief of Erebor’s lost smithies. He longed for the intimacy of standing in a ring of hammersmiths, or the ringing sound of the mighty forge-hammers echoing through vast caverns, and every lonely thin strike of his lonely hammer in his modest smithy was a hammer to his heart, and he convinced himself that every strike was a strike to forge his heart stronger against the trials of their people. 

It was with this in mind that Thorin held his temper when a horse-trader who had called upon Thorin to shod all his horses had refused to pay for one of the horses for it had broken its ankle as it stuck in the mud from the rain. The trader accused the work on the horse for the horse’s misstep into the mud. 

As Thorin kept himself from striking the Man’s head from his shoulders he reminded himself; his was a displaced people. His was a displaced kingship.  
His people needed him. His sister needed him. His sister-son, his heir, swelling his sister’s belly needed him. 

He would endure. He was of Durin’s race. Of Mahal’s race. He would endure. 

*****

**_Of Survivors_ **

Settling into Ered Luin had almost sparked another war, and Thorin did not think his heart nor his people would survive another one so soon. 

The Dwarves had arrived with the dawn, trudging wearily and slowly towards the mountains. 

The men of the Eastern villages had thought it an invasion, the Elves of the harbours had thought the same and it was two armies that greeted them. 

Thorin, his sister’s babe asleep on his back had called a halt to their march as soon as he had been the awaiting armies. Gently lowering the child into the arms of another to take back to Dis, Thorin had forged ahead with Dwalin and Balin alone, as a sign of good faith. 

If things would come to blows or diplomacy, Thorin would ask for no other two to stand by him. They had awaited halfway to the armies. The leaders of both approaching, and Thorin had allowed Balin to speak, too bitter with the memory of the army he had once commanded under his Grandfather’s rule to speak. 

Explaining their situation, the elves had simply retreated with no comment, and it had been Balin’s grip on his elbow alone that would not allow him to get lost in his mind and attack this Elvish army with the memory of another that had walked away from them so. 

The Easterlings had been harder to appease, and it had been finally the lure of Dwarven trade so close to them that had convinced them to leave and allow the Dwarves their way. 

They had scarce settled when demands from the Easterlings for agreements and treaties had trickled in, for they had yet to trust that the Dwarves were true in their word and were not there to invade their lands. 

The first time he had ventured into one of the towns, he had been greeted with great animosity by the people and their leaders. Accusations of the Dwarves wanting to steal their lands and their resources had been hurled and yet Thorin, with Balin as a calming presence, endured, and had signed the treaties that would increase the Easterlings’ trade by more than half within the year and ignored the whispered insults as they left the town. Resisting the urge to tear up the treaty and let them wallow in their poverty and shoddy craftsmanship, Thorin allowed himself to remember his place. 

He was King-in-Exile. He was Uncle. And his people needed this. His sister needed this. His sister-son needed this.  
He would endure. He was of Durin’s race. Of Mahal’s race. He would endure. 

*****  
 ** _Of Sister-sons_**

Life had slowly settled in Ered Luin. Their people finding their place slowly but surely, in the manner of their race.  
Thorin ventured less and less into the city of men unless it was a dire matter that demanded his presence. They had built forges in the mountains, none comparing to those of Erebor, but they were Dwarvish, and in the mountain, and in the stone and that was enough for a weary people. 

They would trade with the neighbouring towns and Thorin built a good life for this people. 

He still missed the great forge-hammers, and his home, and raised his sister-sons in the ways of Erebor, with the traditions of Erebors, for they should never forget their true home, be they having lived in it or not. 

Thorin oft roamed deep into the mountain, for it was there that one could almost feel at ease, in the absolute dark and stillness, where only the small lanterns of the miners shone, and when the melancholy grew too great he would lock himself in his forge and crafts rooms and allow Mahal to guide his hand in some craft until his mind calmed.

It was on such a day, that his solitude was broken as he worked on two mithril clasps for his sister-sons. He looked up in surprise to see his sister, Dis. Her younger in her arms, still droopy from a recent fever and her elder, hiding behind her skirts. 

Raising his eyebrows at the unusual scene, Thorin held his silence and allowed the scene to unfold. For his sister never interrupted his work and his sister-son was never bashful.

The youngest meanwhile managed a small tired wave to his uncle declaring in a serious tone of one imparting important information, “I not sick anymore.”

Thorin answered in turn, “That is good to hear.” 

Dis had given Thorin a wry smile, “Fili insisted,” and stepped aside, “Go on,” she told Fili, nudging him gently with her foot. Fili hesitated before running to Thorin and thrusting a toy warrior cast of metal into Thorin’s hands, the axe of the toy bent. Eyes widened in plea, Fili said, “You can fix it, Uncle, right?”

Hiding his amusement by pulling the toy closer for inspection, he recognised it as one of Bofur’s craft. “I shall do my best.” He informed his nephew gravely as he grasped his pliers and bent the axe back into its original shape. 

Satisfied that all was well with the toy, Thorin handed it back to Fili whose arms went around Thorin’s neck in a tight hug. “Thank you, uncle! I knew it! I told mama no one else could fix it without breaking the axe! I knew it!” 

Thorin found himself wrapping his arms around his young sister-son tightly as his other also piped up, never to be left out, “Knew too!” garnering a small laugh from the mighty Thorin II Oakenshield.

For He might be King-in-Exile. And his people needed him. But he was also Uncle. And his sister needed him. His sister-sons needed him. 

This is why he endured. He was of Durin’s race. Of Mahal’s race. And he endured, because he was Thorin II Oakenshield, Exiled-King Under the Mountain, and Uncle Thorin.


End file.
